Love Isn't Blind

COUPLING By Elinor Lipman - The Boston Globe: "I've long been grateful to the nice woman who left the buffet table at a West Springfield restaurant to alert me to the mortifying fact that my skirt was tucked into the waistband of my pantyhose as I exited the ladies' room.

Doesn't everyone appreciate this brand of human mirrordom? Don't we all want a friend or a partner who, in public, can pantomime lipstick on teeth or fly unzipped? I remember with great fondness the boss who asked me with a wry smile, "New dress?" the day I came to work with a price tag still hanging from my armpit.

My enthusiasm for grooming frankness leads me to a fascination with couples that exercise none. Most memorably: a happy pair, or so it seemed, one child of each gender at home, who sat next to me at a dinner party, circa 1990. I don't recall the food or the guest list, only the undisturbed northeaster of dandruff resting on the husband's collar, evidently unnoticed, unbrushed, unscolded by his wife all night.

I asked two psychiatric professionals about this phenomenon. Was it delicacy? Embarrassment? Cluelessness? How does one account for the public wearing of toupees? For Donald Trump's comb-over?

The first explained: "It could be habituation. You get used to something and don't see it anymore. Also, there are dynamics within couples. If you're together, and you tell someone, for example, that his T-shirt is ripped and he smells, and he gets mad, you don't tell him anymore. It's probably the iceberg dynamic: You, the outsider, are seeing a moment, and you ask yourself, 'How could she let him come to dinner like that?' But you may be seeing the tip of a 20-year struggle. She's reached the point where she says, If he wants to embarrass himself, it's not my problem.'"

The other professional didn't analyze. He launched into a diatribe about a clueless wife in his social circle. "She's dressed to kill! All she cares about is her own appearance. And even though her husband wears $5,000 custom-made suits, the hair growing out of his nose is so thick that I wonder how he can breathe. Why doesn't she say something?"

I brought up the subject of my mother, a dainty and impeccable woman, happily married to my father, a slob. They'd arrive at my house and I'd say, "Dad? Your tie. It's covered with spots." My mother would whirl around and snap - she who had just driven two hours in the company of that soiled outfit - "Lou! Your tie! What's wrong with you?"

Nothing, I'm sure. In retrospect, I view my father's stains as evidence of his good character. He wore them with pride, judging fastidious men to be peacocks and phonies. And my mother: When she looked in the mirror, she concentrated on the immediate self. Habituation didn't refract or reflect my father in the background, holes in his sweaters, eyeglasses askew.

Just as often, it's the man who embodies love is blind. I will see a woman - around 60, miniskirted, wearing plastic earrings wired with colored lights, her hair high and black, better suited to a flamenco troupe - and next to her is the buttoned-down husband in gray pin stripes, looking unmindful of the spectacle that is his wife.

A friend helped explain this phenomenon. She said her husband of 40-plus years doesn't notice anything. "If I gained a hundred pounds, he wouldn't notice. If I've had a drastic haircut, and I ask, 'Notice anything new?' I see a look of panic on his face. 'New dress?' he might say. I don't know if he's locked into some version of me from long ago, something ideal that never was. It's really annoying."

Perhaps I live in an overly frank family. My husband has an expression that I call "evaluative." His features rearrange themselves into something that is part squint, part frown, a look I've seen on the faces of judges at the Westminster dog show. Occasionally he undergoes a moment of delicacy before blurting out what the offense is, but most often he diagnoses and prescribes without much soul- searching. My son will simply say, "Ma? You're not planning to wear those pants outside the house, are you?"

Not now, I'm not. Call me self-conscious and too invested in appearances, but if you see me walking down the street with toilet paper stuck to the sole of my shoe, I am counting on your candor.

Elinor Lipman's eighth novel, My Latest Grievance, will be published next April"